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Ballads 


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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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BACHELOR  BALLADS 


ACHELOR 
BALLADS 


Being  Certain  of  the  Masterpieces 
of  Verse;  Wherein  is  Set  Forth  the 
Sentiment  of  Good-Fellowship      : 

SET  TO  PICTURES  BY 
BLANCHE    McMANUS     :     : 


NEW   AMSTERDAM    BOOK 
COMPANY  :    :    NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT    1898 

BY 

NEW   AMSTERDAM   BOOK  CO. 


j/lusic  Ubranf 

(111 
CONTENTS  ^  ^  '  ''^■' 

Give  Me  The  Old         -             -  -         5 

The  Mahogany  Tree           -             -  11 

The  Betrothed               -             -  -       17 

A  Seat  For  Three               -             -  25 

A  Hunting  We  Will  Go          -  -       29 

Let  The  Toast  Pass           -             -  34 

To  Celia             -             -             -  -       37 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse          -  41 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  -       49 

How  Stands  the  Glass  Around    -  ^1^ 

A  Bachelor's  Dream     -             -  ~       SI 

At  an  Inn  at  Henley         -             -  6^ 

Wreathe  the   Bowl        -              -  -        69 

The  Fire  of  Driftwood      -             -  75 

Fill  The  Bumper  Fair               -  -        81 

A   Recipe  For  a  Salad        -             -  87 

The  Wants  of  Man      -             -  -       91 


Contents 

The  Angler's  Wish       -  -              -       97 

The   Rim   of  The   Bowl  -              -             loi 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco  -             -     107 

A  Golden  Girl        -  -              -             115 

John   Barleycorn             -  -              -      119 

In   Praise  of  Angling  -              -             125 

The  Cane-Bottom'd   Chair  -              -      131 

Hunting  Song          _  _             _             1^7 

Drinking  Song                _  _             _     j^j 

Dedication  -              -  -              -             147 

The  Tables  Turned       -  -              ~     ^  S3 

AuLD  Lang  Syne      -  -             -            157 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD 


Old  wi7ie  to  drink,  old  wood  to  burn,   old 
books  to  read,  atid  old  friends  to  converse  ivith. 

^~^LD    wine  to  drink  I — 

Ay,  give  me  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 

Within  the  tun; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 

Of  India's  sun! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter, — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 


Give  Me  the  Old. 


Old  wood  to  burn  ! — 
Ay,  bring  the  hill-side  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech. 

And  ravens  croak  ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat. 
Dug  'neath  the  fern  ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  faggot  too,  perhap 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking ; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

Old  books  to  read  ! — 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time-honored  tomes  ! 
The  same  my  sire  scannea  before. 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 

The  well-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes  : 
Old  Homer  blind. 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie  ; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie. 


Give  Me  the  Old. 

Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay  ! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

Old  friends  to  talk  ! — 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found  ; 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud. 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 

In  mountain  walk  ! 
Bring  Walter  good  : 
With  soulful  Fred  ;  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  egOy  (dearer  still 

For  everv  word.V 

— Robert   Hinckley   Messinger 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE 


pHRISTMAS  is  here; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we ; 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahoganx    Tree. 


Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Santr,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  we  ; 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing,  like  them, 


12  The  Mahogany  Tree 

Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport. 
Boys,  as  we  sit, — 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short, — 
When  we  are  gone. 
Let  them  sing  on. 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this  ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just. 
Peace  to  your  dust  ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one  .; 
Pile  up  the  coals  , 


'The  Mahogany  Tree. 


i3 


Fill  the  red  bowls, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up ; 
Kmpty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 


Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills. 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn. 
Blue-devil  sprite  ; 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 


— William  MAsircAcc  TMACKi»At 


THE  BETROTHED. 


THE  BETROTHED, 


YOU  tnust  choose  between  lue  attd your  eif^ar. 

/^PKN  the  old  ciu;ar-box,  get  nie  a  Cuba  stout, 
Vox  things  are  runningr  crosswavs,  and  Mag- 
gie and  I  are  out. 

We  i|uarreled  about  Mavanas — we   fought  o'er  a 

trood  cheroot, 
And  1  know  she  is  exacting,  and  she  says  I  am  a 

brute. 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  a  space  ; 
In   the   soft   blue   veil    of  the  vapor,  musing  on 
MaQ;trie's  tace. 

Mactjie  is  pretrv  to   look,   at — Maggie's  a   loving 

^hiss. 


1 8  The   Betrothed. 

But  the  prettiest  cheeks  must  wrinkle,  the  truest 
of  loves  must  pass. 

There's  peace  in  a   Laranaga,  there's  calm  in  a 

Henry  Clay, 
But   the   best  cigar  in   an  hour   is   finished   and 

thrown  away — 

Thrown  away  for  another  as  perfect  and  ripe  and 

brown — 
But  I  could  not  throw  away   Maggie  for  fear  o* 

the  talk  o'  the  town  ! 

Maggie,   my   wife   at   fifty — gray   and   dour   and 

old—  ' 
With  never  another  Maggie  to  purchase  for  love 

or  gold  ! 

And  the  light  of  the   Days  that  have   Been,  the 

dark  of  the  Days  that  Are, 
And    Love's   torch   stinking  and   stale,   like  the 

butt  of  a  dead  cigar — 

The  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  you  are  bound  to   keep 

in  your  pocket — 
With  never  a  new  one  to   light  tho'  its  charred 

and  black  to  the- socket. 


The    Betrothed.  19 

Open    the    old    cigar-box  —  let    me    consider    a 

while — 
Here  is  a  mild  Manila — there  is  a  wifely  smile. 

Which    is   the   better   portion — bondage   bought 

with  a  ring, 
Or  a   harem   of  dusky   beauties — fifty    tied  in  a 

string  ? 

Counsellors  cunning  and  silent — comforters  true 

and  tried, 
And  never  a  one  of  the  fifty  to   sneer  at  a    rival 

bride. 

Thought  in  the  early  morning,  solace  in   time  of 

woes. 
Peace  in  the  hush   of  the  twilight,  balm  ere  my 

eyelids  close. 

This  will  the  fitty  give  me,  asking  nought  in  re- 
turn, 

With  only  a  Suttee's  passion — to  do  their  duty 
and  burn. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me.  Wjicn  thev  arc  spent 
and  dead, 

I'ive  rimes  other  fifties  shall  be  my  servants  in- 
stead. 


20  The   Betrothed. 

The  furrows  of  far-off  Java,  the  isles  of  the  Span- 
ish Main, 

When  they  hear  my  harem  is  empty,  will  send 
me  my  brides  again. 

I  will  take  no  heed  for  their  raiment,  nor  food 

for  their  mouths  withal, 
So  long  as  the  gulls  are  nesting,  so  long  as  the 

showers  fall. 

I  will  scent  'em  with  best  vanilla,  with  tea  will   I 

temper  their  hides. 
And  the  Moor  and  the  Mormon  shall  envv  who 

read  the  tale  of  my  brides. 

For  Maggie  has  written  a  letter  to  give  me  my 

choice  between 
7  he  wee  little  whimpering  Love,  and   the  great 

god  Nick  o'  Teen. 

And  I  have  been   servant  of  Love  for  barely  a 

twelvemonth  clear. 
But  I  have  been  priest  of  Partagas  a  matter  of 

seven  year ; 

And  the  gloom  of  my  bachelor  days  is  flecked 
with  the  cheerv  light 


The    Betrothed.  21 

Of  stumps  that  I  burned  to  Friendship  and  Pleas- 
ure and  Work  and  Fight. 

And  1  turn  my  eyes  to  the  future  that   Maggie 

and  I  must  prove, 
But  the  only  light  on  the  marshes  is  the  Will-o'- 

the-Wisp  of  Love. 

Will  it  see  me  safe  through  my  journey,  or  leave 

me  bogged  in  the  mire  ? 
Since  a  puff   of    tobacco    can  cloud  it,    shall     I 

follow  the  fitRil  fire  ? 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  anew — 
Old   friends,  and  who  is    Maggie  that   I   should 
abandon  you  ? 

A    million   surplus    Maggies  are  willing  to    bear 

the  yoke  ; 
And  a  woman  is  onlv  a  woman,  but  a  e^ood   cigar 

is  a  smoke. 

Light  me  another  Cuba  ;    I  hold  to  mv  first-sworn 

vows, 
If  Maggie  will  have  no  rival,  I'll  have   no    Mvig- 

gie  tor  spouse  I 

RlI>VAIIl>     K.IPLING. 


A  SEAT  FOR   THREE 


A  SEAT  FOR   THREE 


Written  on  the  panels  oj  a  settle. 

^^ P<   SI'.AT  tor  three,  where  host  and  guest 
May  side-by-side  pass  toast  or  jest; 
And  be  their  number  two  or  three, 
With  elbow-room  and  liberty. 
What  need  to  wander  east  or  west  ? 


"A  lK)ok  tor  thought,  a  nook  tor  rest 
And  meet  tor  fasting  or  tor  test. 
In  fair  and  equal  parts  to  be 
A  scat  tor  three. 


26 


A  Seat  For  Three 


"  Then  give  you  pleasant  company, 
For  youth  or  elder  shady  tree ; 

A  roof  for  council  or  sequest, 
A  corner  in  a  homely  nest ; 

Free,  equal,  and  fraternally 
A  seat  for  three." 


— Walter  Crane 


A  HUNTING  WE  WILL  GO 


A  HUNTING  WE  WILL  GO 


npHK  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky. 

And  ushers  in  the  morn  : 
The  hounds  all  join  in  glorious  cry, 
The  huntsman  winds  his  horn. 

And  a  hunting  we  will  go. 


The  wife  around  her  husband  throws 
Her  arms,  to  make  him  stay  ; 

"  Mv  dear,  it  rains,  it  hails,  it  blows; 
^'ou  cannot  hunt  to  day." 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Awav  thev  flv  to   'scape  the  rout, 

Their  steeds  thev  soundly  switch; 

Some  are  thrown  in,  and  some  thrown  out. 
And  some  thrown  in  the  ditch. 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 


A  Hunting  We  Will  Go 

Sly  Reynard,  now,  like  lightning  flies, 

And  sweeps  across  the  vale ; 
And  when  the  hounds  too  near  he  spies, 

He  drops  his  bushy  tail. 

Then  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Fond  Echo  seems  to  like  the  sport, 

And  join  the  jovial  cry  ; 
The  woods,  the  hills,  the  sound  retort, 

And  music  fills  the  sky. 

When  a  hunting  we  do  go. 

At  last  his  strength  to  faintness  worn. 

Poor  Reynard  ceases  flight ; 
Then  hungry,  homeward  we  return. 

To  feast  away  the  night. 

And  a  drinking  we  do  go. 

Ye  jovial  hunters,  in  the  morn 

Prepare  them  for  the  chase  ; 
Rise  at  the  sounding  of  the  horn 

And  health  with  sport  embrace. 

When  a  hunting  we  do  go. 


-Henry    Fielding. 


LET  THE  TOAST  PASS 


LEr  THE  TOAST  PASS 


|-r[\Rl\'S  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen  ; 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty  ; 
Here's  to  the  flaunting,  extravagant  quean, 

And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty. 
Let  the  toast  pass, 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an   excuse   for   the  glass. 


Here's  to  the  charmer  whose  dimples  we  prize, 

Now  to  the  maid   who  has  none,  sir  ; 
Here's  to  the  girl  with  a  pair  of  blue  eves. 

And  here's  to  the    nvmph  with  but  one,  sir. 
Let  the  toast  pass. 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
ril  warrant  she'll    prove  an   excuse  for  the  glass. 


34 


Let  the  Toast  Pass 


Here's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow ; 

Now  to  her  that's  as  brown  as  a  berry ; 
Here's  to  the  wife  with  a  face  full  of  woe, 
And  now  to  the  damsel  that's  merry. 
Let  the  toast  pass. 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an   excuse  for  the  glass. 

For  let  'em  be  clumsy,  or  let  'em  be  slim, 

Young  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather ; 
So  fill  the  pint  bumper  quite  up  to  the  brim. 

So  fill  up  your  glasses,  nay,  fill   to  the  brim, 
And  let  us  e'en  toast  them  together. 
Let  the  toast  pass. 
Drink  to  the  lass, 
I'll  warrant  she'll   prove  an   excuse   for  the  glass. 

—  The  School  for  Scandal. 


70   CELIA 


ro  CELIA 


From  the  Greek  of  P/iilosf rains 
Translation  of  Ben  Jonson 

J^RINK  to  me  oniy  with  thine  eyes. 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a   rosy  wreath. 
Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 


38 


^0    Celia 


As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 
It  could  not  withered  be. 

But  thou  thereon  dids't  only  breathe, 
And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 

Since  when,  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 
Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


THE   BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 


THE   BALLJD   OF  BOUILLABAISSE 


A     STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous. 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields. 
Rue  Neuve  de  petit3  Champs  its  name  is — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields  ; 
And  there's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid. 

But  still  in  comfortable  case — 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended. 
To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 
A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew. 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  muscles,  saffern. 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  ; 


42  'The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 

All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern, 
In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 


Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  't  is ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties. 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace. 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting. 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is  as  before ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  ; 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table. 

And  hoped  you  like  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter ;  nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's   Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray  ?  " 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulders  ; — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race  !  " 


The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse  43 

"  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner  ?  " 
"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?  " 
"  Tell  me  a  good  one."     "  That  I  can,  sir ; 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"  So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place  ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  wine  drinking. 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is — 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 
Ah  !    vanished  many  a  busy  year  is. 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  Cari  luoghi^ 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face. 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 
Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 

Come,  waiter  !    quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 

The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 
My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 


44  The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 

Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 
And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 


There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette ; 
On  James'  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !    the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  sat  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting. 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me. 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 


I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes  ; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 


'The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse  45 

Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse  ! 

— William   Makepeace  Thackerav 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A   FLOWING   SEA 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A   FLOWING   SEA 


\    WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  an  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 


"  C)  for  a  sott  and  gentle  wind !  " 

I  hear  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  me  to  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free, — 


50  A  Wet  Sheet  and  a    Flowing  Sea 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 
And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  Hghtning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners. 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free, — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

— Allan   Cunningham 


HOJV  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND? 


HOfV  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND? 


P-IOW  stands  the  glass  around? 

For  shame  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys: 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound. 

The  trumpets  sound ; 
The  colors  they  are  flying,  boys. 

To  fight,  kill  or  wound, 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fare,  my  boys, 

On  the  cold  ground. 


Why,  soldiers,  why. 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys  ? 
Why,  soldiers,  why  ? 


54 


How  Standi  the  Glass  Around? 

Whose  business  'tis  to  die  ! 

What,  sighing  ?  fie  ! 
Don't  fear,  drink  on,  be  jolly,  boys  ! 

'Tis    he,  you  or  I  ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet  or  dry. 
We're  always  bound  to  follow,  boys, 

And  scorn  to  fly. 


*Tis  but  in  vain — 
I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys — 

'Tis  but  in  vain 

For  soldiers  to  complain  : 

Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys. 

We're  free  from  pain  ! 

But  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  a  kind  landlady 

Cure  all  again. 


— Anonymous 


THE  BACHELOR'S  DREAM 


THE  BACHELOR'S  DREAM 


IV/TY  pipe  is  lit,  my  gi*og  is  mixed. 

My  curtains  drawn  and  all  is  snug ; 
Old  Puss  is  in  her  elbow-chair, 
And  Tray  is  sitting  on  the  rug. 
Last  night  I  had  a  curious  dream, 
Miss  Susan  Bates  was  Mistress  Mogg, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 


She  looked  so  fair,  she  sang  so  well, 
I  could  but  woo  and  she  was  won. 
Myself  in  blue,  the  bride  in  white. 
The  ring  was  placed,  the  deed  was  done  ! 


58  The    Bachelor  s    Dream 

Away  we  went  in  chaise-and-four, 
As  fast  as  grinning  boys  could  flog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

What  loving  tete-a-tetes  to  come  ! 
But  tete-a-tetes  must  still  defer  ! 
When  Susan  came  to  live  with  me. 
Her  mother  came  to  live  with  her. 
With  sister  Belle  she  couldn't  part. 
But  all  my  ties  had  leave  to  jog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

The  mother  brought  a  pretty  Poll, 

A  monkey,  too,  what  work  he  made  ! 

The  sister  introduced  a  beau. 

My  Susan  brought  a  favorite  maid. 

She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own, — 

A  snappish  mongrel  christened  Gog, — 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  monkey  bit,  the  parrot  screamed. 
All  day  the  sister  strummed  and  sung ; 
The  petted  maid  was  such  a  scold  ! 
My  Susan  learned  to  use  her  tongue; 


The  Bachelor* s  Dream  59 

Her  mother  had  such  wretched  health, 
She  sat  and  croaked  like  any  frog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

No  longer  Deary,  Duck,  and  Love, 
I  soon  came  down  to  simple  "  M  !  " 
The  very  servants  crossed  my  wish, 
My  Susan  let  me  down  to  them. 
The  poker  hardly  seemed  my  own, 
I  might  as  well  have  been  a  log, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

My  clothes  they  were  the  queerest  shape  ! 
Such  coats  and  hats  she  never  met ! 
My  ways  they  were  the  oddest  ways  ! 
My  friends  were  such  a  vulgar  set ! 
Poor  Tomkinson  was  snubbed  and  huffed. 
She  could  not  bear  that  Mister  Blogg, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

At  times  we  had  a  spar,  and  then 
Mamma  must  mingle  in  the  song ; 
The  sister  took  a  sister's  part ; 
The  maid  declared  her  master  wrong ; 


6o  T'he  Bachelor  s  Dream 

The  parrot  learned  to  call  me  "  Fool !  " 
My  life  was  like  a  London  fog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

My  Susan's  taste  was  superfine, 

As  proved  by  bills  that  had  no  end ; 

/  never  had  a  decent  coat, 

/  never  had  a  coin  to  spend  ! 

She  forced  me  to  resign  my  club. 

Lay  down  my  pipe,  retrench  my  grog, — 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  r 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Each  Sunday  night  we  gave  a  rout 
To  fops  and  flirts,  a  pretty  list ; 
And  when  I  tried  to  steal  away, 
I  found  my  study  full  of  whist ! 
Then,  first  to  come  and  last  to  go. 
There  always  was  a  Captain  Hogg, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Now  was  not  that  an  awful   dream 
For  one  who  single  is  and  snug, 
With  Pussy  in  the  elbow-chair 
And  Tray  reposing  on  the  rug  ? — 


The  Bachelor's  Dream 


6i 


If  I  must  totter  down  the  hill, 
'Tis  safest  done  without  a  clog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 


— Thomas  Hood 


AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY. 


jr  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY. 


'T'O  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din  ; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign, 
And  every  health  which  I  begin 

Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne : 
Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  inn. 


I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate, 

I  fly  trom  falsehood's  specious  grin  ; 

Freedom  I  love  and  form  I  hate, 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 


66 


At  an  Inn  at  Henley. 


Here,  waiter  !  take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win  ; 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store. 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  traveled  life's  dull  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 

William   Shenstone. 


JVREArUE  THE  BOJVL. 


IVREATHE  THE  BOfVL. 


\YREATHE  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Towards  heav'n  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ; 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreaths  be  hid 

That  Joy,  the  enchanter,  brings  us, 
No  danger  fear 
While  wine  is  near — 

We'll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 
Then  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 


yo  Wreathe  the  Bowl. 

We'll  take  a  flight 
Towards  heav'n  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

'Twas  nectar  fed 

Of  old,  'tis  said. 
Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos  ; 

And  man  may  brew 

His  nectar  too  ; 
The  rich  receipt's  as  follows : — 

Take  wine  like  this  ; 

Let  looks  of  bliss 
Around  it  well  be  blended ; 

Then  bring  Wit's  beam 

To  warm  the  stream. 
And  there's  your  nectar,  splendid  ! 

So  wreathe  the  bowl, 

With  flowers  of  soul. 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heav'n  to-night. 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

Say,  why  did  Time 
His  glass  sublime 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly. 
When  wine  he  knew 
Runs  brisker  through, 


Wreathe  the  Bowl. 


71 


And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 
Oh,  lend  it  us. 
And,  smiHng  thus. 
The  glass  in  two  we'd  sever. 
Make  pleasure  glide 
In  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  for  ever  ! 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl, 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ? 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Towards  heav'n  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 


— Thomas  Moore 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-JVOOD. 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 


Devereux  Farm,  near  J\rarblekead. 

V\/^E  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold. 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, — 
The  lighthouse — the  dismantled  fort, — 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, — 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 


76  'The  Fire  of  Drift-wood. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been. 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain. 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends. 
And  never  can  be  one  again 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart. 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express. 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part. 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips. 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, — 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 


1'he  Fire  of  Drift-wood.  ^^ 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, — 
The  ocean  roaring  up  the  beach, — 

The  gusty  blast — the  bickering  flames, — 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed  !    O  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, — 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned. 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 

— Henry   Wadsworth   Longfellow 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR, 


FILL   THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 


t^ILL   the  bumper  fair 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  thev  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 


82  Fill  the  Bumper  Fair. 

And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starred  dominions : — 

So  we,  sages,  sit 

And,  'mid  bumpers  bright'ning. 

From  the  heaven  of  wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day. 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us : 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring. 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in. — 
But  oh  his  joy,  when,  round 

The  halls  of  heaven  spying 
Among  the  stars,  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying  ! 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl. 
Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 


Fill  the  Bumper  Fair. 


83 


With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 

Mixed  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us  ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  Bumper  Fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  Brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


-Thomas   Moore 


A  RECIPE  FOR  A  SALAD 


A  RECIPE  FOR  A  SALAD 


npO  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 

The    pounded    yellow    of  two    hard-boiled 

eggs; 
Two    boiled    potatoes,    passed  through    kitchen 

sieve, 
Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give. 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl. 
And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole. 
Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon. 
Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault, 
To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt. 
Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  brown, 
And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from  town  ; 
And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 


88  A  Recipe  for  a  Salad 

A  magic  soup9on  of  anchovy  sauce. 

O,  green  and  glorious  !   O  herbaceous  treat ! 

'T  would  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat : 

Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl ! 

Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

"  Fate  cannot  harm  me,  I  have  dined  to-day." 

Sidney  Smith. 


rHE  WANTS   OF  MAN 


THE  WANT'S   OF  MAN 


4  4  "IV/TAN  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  tne  exactly  so  ; 

But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many  and,  if  told, 
Would  muster  many  a  score  ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 
I  still  should  long  for  more, 

What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread — 
And  canvas-backs — and  wine — 

And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 
Before  me,  where  1  dine. 

Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 
My  appetite  to  quell  ; 


92  The  IV ants  of  Man 

With  four  choice  cooks  from  France  beside. 
To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  next  I  want,  at  princely  cost. 

Is  elegant  attire : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silk  for  summer's  fire. 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussel's  lace 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck, — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace. 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

I  want  (who  does  not  want  ? )  a  wife, — 

Affectionate  and  fair ; 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life. 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 
Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will. 

Of  firm,  yet  placid  mind, — 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs. 

And  Fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

From  eight  to  half  a  score. 
I  want  (alas  !  can  mortal  dare 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ?) 


The  Wants    of  Man  93 

That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair, — 
The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power, — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when   I'm  wrong. 

My  inmost  soul  to  see ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

To  him  as  his  to  me. 

1  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place. 

The  ensigns  of  command  ; 
Charged  by  the  People's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  native  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask. 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
Bv  dav,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind. 
And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human-kind. 
That  after  ages,  as  they  rise. 

Exulting  may  proclaim 


94 


The  Wants    of  Man 


In  choral  union  to  the  skies 
Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  Man^- 

I  cannot  want  them  long, 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss — a  song. 
My  last  great  Want — absorbing  all — 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod. 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 
The  Mercy  of  my  God, 


— John  2""*cy  Adams 


rHE  ANGLER'S   WISH 


THE  ANGLER'S   WISH 


T  IN  these  flowery  meads  would  be: 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me  ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 

I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle  dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love  : 


Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty  :  please  my  mind. 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers. 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers  ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song  : 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young. 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest  : 
Here,  give  mv  weary  spirits  rest, 


98  The  Angler  s  Wish 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  "what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice; 

Or  with  my   Bryan  and  a  book. 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook ; 

There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day  ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away ; 

And  angle  on  ;  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

— IzAAE  Walton 


rHE  RIM  OF  THE  BOWL. 


rHE   RIM   OF   THE   BOPTL 


T   SAT  'mid  the  flickering  lights,  when  all  the 
guests  had   departed, 
Alone  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  dreamed 
of  the  days  that  were  gone  ; 
Neither  asleep  nor  waking,  nor  sad   nor   cheery- 
hearted — 
But  passive  as  a  leaf  by  the  mild  November 
blown. 
I   thought — if  thinking    'twere,    when    thoughts 
were  dimmer  than  shadows — 
And  toyed  the  while  with  the  music  I  drew 
from  the  rim  of  the  bowl, 
Passive,  my  fingers   round,  as   if  my    will  com- 
pelled it 
To    answer  my  shapeless    dreams,  as    soul 
might  answer  soul. 


I02  The    Rim    of  the  Bowl 

Idle  I  was,  and  listless  ;  but  melody  and  fancy- 
Came  out  of  that  tremendous   dulcimer,  as 
my  hand  around  it  strayed  ; 
The  rim  was  a  magic  circle,  and   mine  was  the 
necromancy 
That  summoned  its    secrets    forth,  to  take 
the  forms  I  bade. 
Secrets  !  ay  !  buried  secrets,  forgotten  for  twenty 
summers. 
But  living   anew  in  the  odors  of  the  roses 
at  the  board; 
Secrets   of  Truth   and   Passion,  and   the  days  of 
Life's  unreason  ; 
Perhaps  not  at  all  atoned   for,  in   the  judg- 
ments of  the  Lord. 

Secrets   that   still   shall   slumber,  for    I    will  not 
bare  my  bosom 
To  the  gaze  of  the  heartless,  prying,  incon- 
scionable  crowd. 
That    would   like  to   know,   I    doubt    not,   how 
much  I  have  sinned  and  suffered. 
And  drag  me  down   to  its  level — because  it 
would  humble  the  proud. 
Beautiful  spirits   they  were,  that  danced   on   the 
rim  at  my  bidding  : 
Spirits    of  Joy    or   Sadness,   in   their  brief 
sweet  summer  day  ; 


'The  Rim  of  the  Bowl  103 

Spirits   that    aye    possess  me,  and   keep  me  if  I 
wander, 
In  the  line  of  the  straight,  and  the  flower  of 
the  fruitful  way. 

Spirits  of  women  and  children — spirits  of  friends 
departed — 
Spirits  of  dear  companions   that   have  gone 
to  the  levelling  tomb. 
Hallowed  forever    and    ever    with    the   sanctity 
of  sorrow. 
And  the  aureole  of  death  that  crowns  them 
in    the  gloom. 
Spirits  of  Hope  and   Faith,  and   one   supremely 
lovely. 
That  sang  to  me  years  agone,  when  I  was  a 
little  child. 
And   sported  at  her  footstool  or   lav   upon    her 
bosom, 
And   gazed  at    the    love    that  dazzled    me, 
from  her  eyes  so   soft  and  mild. 

And   that   song  from    the    rim  of  the  bowl  came 
sounding  and  sounding  ever — 
As  oft  it   had    done   before  in   the  toil  and 
moil  of  life  ; 

A  song  nor   sad   nor   merry,  but  low  and  sweet 
and  plaintive  ; 


I04 


T'he  Rim  of  the  Bowl 


A  clarion   blast  in  sorrow  ;    an  anodyne  in 

strife  ; 
A    song    like    a    ray   of  moonlight   that  gleams 

athwart  a  tempest. 
Sound     ever,     O    Song !      sound     sweetly, 

whether  I  live  or  die, 
My    guardian,   my  adviser,    my   comforter,   my 

comrade, 
A  voice  from  the  sinless  regions — a  message 

from  the  sky  ! 


— Charles  Mackay 


fs 


A       If?        ^S 


A   FAREWELL   TO   TOBACCO. 


A   FAREWELL   TO    TOBACCO. 


TV/TAY  the  Babylonish  curse 

Strait  confound  my  stammering  verse, 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word — perplexity. 
Or  a  fit  expression  find, 
Or  a  language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant). 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  Great  Plant  ! 
Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate; 
For  I  hate,  yet  love  thee  so. 
That,  whichever  thing  I  show. 
The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrained  hyperbole, 


io8  A  Farewell  to   Tobacco 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  for  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus*  black  servant,  negro  fine  ; 
Sorcerer,  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way. 
While  thou  suck'st  the  laboring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us. 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us. 
While  each  man,  through  thy  heightening  steam. 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem  ; 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us. 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us. 
And,  for  these  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  free  Chimeras, 


A  Farewell  to   Tobacco  109 

Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.      But  what  art  thou. 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do. 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle? 
Some  few  vapors  thou  mayst  raise. 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze. 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born. 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn. 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow. 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart. 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume ; 


no  A  Farewell   to  Tobacco 

Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain  : 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel. 
Framed  again  no  second  smelL 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking'st  of  the  stinking  kind. 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ; 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together. 
Hemlock,  aconite — 

Nay,  rather. 
Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  : 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you, 
'Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee ; 
None  e'er  prospered  who  defamed  thee  ; 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 
Such  as  perplexed  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair. 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike 
They  borrow  language*  of  dislike  ; 


A  Farewell  to    'Tobacco  1 1 1 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring. 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that's  evil 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more ; 
Friendly  Traitress,  loving  Foe, 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so. 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 
Borders  so  upon  excess, 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  from  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow's  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  quite. 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall. 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 
For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I   must)    leave  thee  : 


112  A  Farewell  to  'Tobacco 

For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die. 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state. 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced. 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced. 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain  ; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys  ; 
Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician. 
Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife  ; 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight. 
An  unconquered  Canaanite. 

— Charles  Lamb. 


A  GOLDEN  GIRL. 


A  GOLDEN  GIRL. 


T    UCY  is  a  golden  girl  ; 

But  a  man,  a  man  should  woo  her ! 
They  who  seek  her  shrink  aback, 

When  they  should,  like  storms,  pursue  her. 


All  her  smiles  are  hid  in  light ; 

All  her  hair  is  lost  in  splendor  ; 
But  she  hath  the  eyes  of  night 

And  a  heart  that's  over-tender. 


Yet  the  foolish  suitors  fly 

(Is  't  excess  of  dread  or  duty?) 

From  the  starlight  of  her  eye, 
Leaving  to  neglect  her  beauty  ! 


ii6 


A  Golden  Girl, 


Men  by  fifty  seasons  taught, 

Leave  her  to  a  young  beginner. 
Who,  without  a  second  thought. 

Whispers,  woos,  and  straight  must  win  her. 

Lucy  is  a  golden  girl  ! 

Toast  her  in  a  goblet  brimming ! 
May  the  man  that  wins  her  wear 

On  his  heart  the  Rose  of  Women  ! 

— Barry   Cornwall. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN. 


I  ^HERE  was  three  Kings  into  the  east. 
Three  Kings  both  great  and  high, 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  down, 

Put  clods  upon  his  head, 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 


But  the  cheerfu'  Spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  show'rs  began  to  fall ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again. 

And  sore  surpris'd  them  all. 


I20  'John  Barleycorn. 

The  sultry  suns  of  Summer  came. 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong, 
His  head  weel  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears, 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  Autumn  enter'd  mild. 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale ; 
His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 

Show'd  he  began  to  fail. 

His  color  sicken'd  more  and  more. 

He  faded  into  age  : 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They've  ta'en  a  weapon  long  and  sharp. 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgery. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 

And  cudgell'd  him  full  sore ; 
They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  turn'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim, 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 


John  Barleycorn.  121 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor 

To  work  him  further  woe, 
And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appeared. 

They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones ; 
But  a  miller  us'd  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crush'd  him  between  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  ta'en  his  very  heart's  blood 

And  drank  it  round  and  round ; 
And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank 

Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise. 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

'Twill  make  a  man  forget  his  woe  ; 

'Twill  heighten  all  his  joy  : 
'Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand  ; 
And  may  his  great  posterity 

Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland. 

— Robert   Burns. 


IN  PRAISE   OF  ANGLING, 


IN  PRAISE   OF  JNGLINi 


/QUIVERING  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 
iNi»'    Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears. 

Fly,  fly  to  courts, 

Fly  to  fond  worldling's  sports, 
Where  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glossing  still. 
And  grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her  will, 

Where  mirth's  but  mummery. 

And  sorrows  only  real  be. 


Fly  trom  our  country  pastimes,  fly. 
Sad  troops  of  human  misery. 

Come,  serene  looks, 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks. 
Or  the  pure  a-zured  heaven  that  smiles  to  see 
The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty  ; 


126  In  Praise  of  Angling. 

Peace  and  a  secure  mind, 

Which  ail  men  seek,  we  only  find. 


Abused  mortals  !  did  you  know 

Where  joy,  heart's  ease,  and  comforts  grow  ? 

You'd  scorn  proud  towers, 

And  seek  them  in  these  bowers. 
Where  winds,  sometimes,  our  woods  perhaps  may 

shake, 
But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest  make ; 

Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us. 

Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

Here's  no  fantastic  mask  nor  dance, 
But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance ; 

Nor  wars  are  seen, 

Unless  upon  the  green, 
Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the  other. 
Which  done,  both  bleating  run, each  to  his  mother; 

And  wounds  are  never  found. 

Save  what  the  ploughshare  gives  the  ground. 

Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  to  too  hasty  fates  ; 

Unless  it  be 

The  fond  credulity 


In  Praise  of  Angling.  127 

Of  silly  fish,  which  (worldling  like)  still  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook  ; 

Nor  envy,  'less  among 

The  birds,  for  prize  of  their  sweet  song. 

Go,  let  the  diving  negro  seek 

For  gems,  hid  in  some  forlorn  creek ; 

We  all  pearls  scorn. 

Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as  they  pass  ; 

And  gold  ne'er  here  appears, 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Blest  silent  groves,  O,  may  you  be 
Forever  mirth's  best  nursery  ! 

May  pure  contents 

Forever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,  these  rocks,  these  mountains, 
And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  fountains. 

Which  we  may  every  year 

Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

— Sir   Hr.NRY   Wotton. 


THE    CANE-BOTTOM'D    CHAIR. 


THE   CANE-BOTTOM'D   CHAIR. 


TN  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 

And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars. 
Away  from  the  world,  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure. 
But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure  ; 
And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 
Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'd  in  all  nooks 
With  worthless  old  knicknacks  and  silly  old  books. 
And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Crack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes 
from  friends. 


132  The  Cane-Bottom' d  Chair. 

Old    armor,    prints,    pictures,    pipes,    china    (all 

crack'd), 
Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed  ; 
A  two-penny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see  ; 
What  matter  ?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require. 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp  ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp  ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and 

the  chimes. 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and 

old  times  ; 
As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie, 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest. 
There  is  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best: 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that  's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 


The  Cane-Bottom' d  Chair.  133 

'Tis  a  bandy-legg'd,  high  shoulder'd,  worm-eaten 

seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling,  in  holding  such  charms, 
A  thrill  must  have  pass'd  through  your  wither'd 
old  arms  ! 

J  look'd,  and  I  long'd,  and   I   wish'd  in  despair; 
I  wished  myself  turn'd  to  a  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face  ; 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And    she    sat    there    and    bloom'd    in    my  cane- 
bottom'd  chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 
Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince; 
Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare. 
The  queen   of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

When  the  candles  burn   low,  and  the  company's 

gone. 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 


134 


The  Cane-Bottom' d  Chair. 


I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room  ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom ; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair. 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

— William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


HUNTING  SONG. 


HUNTING  SONG, 


VV/'AKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day ; 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 
With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they  : — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


Waken  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming  ; 
And  foresters  have  busy  been, 


138 


Hunting  Song. 


To  track  the  buck  in  thickets  green ; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay  : — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away  ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies. 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made. 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd : 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay : — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder,  chant  the  lay. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth  and  glee. 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  balk, 

Staunch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  : 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


-Sir  W'alter  Scott 


DRINKING  SONG. 


DRINKING  SONG. 


Inscriptio7i  for  an  Antique  Pitcher. 

r^OME,  old  friend  !   sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  phiced  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken. 
Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
\'acantlv  he  leers  and  chatters. 


i'"auns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow; 
Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 


1 42  Drinking  Son^. 

As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 
And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses. 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations. 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations. 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o'er  zealous  rigor. 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses ; 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor. 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 

Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 
Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains, — ■ 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 


Drinking   Song.  143 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 
And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chanted 

Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys. 
Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 

In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 

Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  LucuUus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


DEDICATION. 


DEDICATION. 


A  S  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom. 

Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 
And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come. 
Pauses  from  time   to   time,  and   turns  and 
hearkens  • 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends  ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort  and  assistance. 


If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation. 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand-fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 


148  Dedication. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone. 

Friends  are  around  us,  though   no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history. 
In  which  v/e  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand, — 

One  touch  of  fire, — and  all  the  rest  is  mystery! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places. 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces. 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold. 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and 
semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old. 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  av/ay, 
Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 

When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 
As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 


Dedication.  14.9 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest. 
At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are 
lighted. 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest. 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited ! 

— Henry   Wadsworth   Longfellow 


THE  TABLES  TURNED. 


THE  TABLES  TURNED, 


Up  !  up  !   my  friend,  and  quit  your  books  ; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks  ; 
Whv  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 


The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow, 

Through  »11  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 


Books  !   'tis  a  dull  endless  strife  : 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life. 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 


154  '^^^  Tables  Turned. 

sings 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things. 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health. 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good. 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  nature  brings  ; 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 

— William  Wadswortk 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 


AULD  LANG  STNE, 


CHOULD  auld  acquaintance  he  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  of  o'  lang  syne? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  talc  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  svne. 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wander'd  nionv  a  weary  foot, 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 


158  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  of  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn. 
From  mornin*  sun  till  dine ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd, 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere. 

And  gi'es  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


Auld  Lang  Syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint  stoup, 
And  surely  I'll  be  mine; 

And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


59 


— Robert  Burns 


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